


Second Chance

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Monaco qualifying (2006), Michael seeks understanding for his actions, and finds forgiveness from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chance

The bar is full. It always is, but this is Grand Prix weekend in Monaco, when everyone decks themselves out in their finery and promenades up and down through the usual haunts in search of fame, wealth, or flesh.

Michael dislikes bars. Unless there's a reason for him to go to one – say, for example, winning the WDC – he stays away. But tonight he's using the bar not as a place of celebration, but as a place of retreat.

A strange place to hide, out in full sight of the public: but it's always worked for him before. After this morning's incident at the Rascasse when he parked his car and destroyed Fernando's qualifying lap time, the media as well as paddock personnel have been hounding him. Even Corinna, who usually supports him without question in her disinterested way, had looked askance at him and asked him "Why?"

He'd given her the same answer he'd given everyone else; and like everyone else, she knew it was a lie.

Michael couldn't bear being in the same room with her anymore. Her reproach is worse than that of the media, for he has weathered worse storms from the press. But feeling like a disappointment in his own home, or at least within his marriage, is too much for him to bear: especially as Corinna is so understanding of his proclivities.

So he dresses down – no loud shirts, jewelled belts or designer sunglasses – and he goes out. Discretion is the byword tonight.

The first bar he enters, he's recognised within ten minutes. The fan that approaches him looks belligerent, swaying on his feet, but he shakes Michael's hand and tells him that the end justifies the means.

Michael is polite. He finishes his drink and then leaves.

At the next bar, he sits in a dark corner and watches the people around him, drinking, flirting, the place full of conversation and laughter. It all seems so very alien. The girls are young and beautiful; the men are older and exude power. They make it look so easy.

This time Michael doesn't bother to finish his drink before he leaves.

The third bar is patronised by people who are neither spectacularly beautiful nor obvious F1 fans. He assumes it's the kind of place where the locals go for a drink. As he waits for the barman to finish pulling the beer, he looks again at the customers and realises that they're the quiet rich, discreet with murmured conversation. Rather than the trash-scent of too much perfume and too many Gitanes, this place smells of class: starched cotton, polished leather, Cuban cigars, the finest brandy.

No one looks at him, but he feels accepted. Michael takes his beer to a small table and sits with his back to the room. He's clumsy, his hand shaking. Some of the beer slops down the side. He puts it on the table and sits quietly, watching the slow ooze of the creamy head over the chilled glass.

When it reaches the bottom, the spill absorbs into the white linen tablecloth. It will leave a slight tidemark when it dries. Michael wonders if all sin is like that, only visible if held up to the light.

He takes a sip of the beer, licking the foam from his top lip as he sets down the glass again. It's a pleasant, clean taste that momentarily makes him feel better. The simple pleasures in life should never be discounted.

There's a candle placed in the middle of the table. From the small pool of wax beneath the wick, Michael can tell it's been burning for at least half an hour. The candle is so expensive it has no scent: just the suggestion of purity from its creamy shade of beeswax. He watches the flame as if hypnotised.

He feels a presence beside him. "Michael."

It's not a question, the way politeness dictates when acquaintances meet one another unexpectedly. Intrigued, Michael glances up from the flame to see Nico Rosberg standing beside the table. He wears jeans and a dark t-shirt, managing both shabby chic and effortless elegance at the same time. His blond hair wings down into his eyes, casting his face into shadow.

Michael asks the obvious question. "How did you know I was here?"

Nico doesn't smile. "I followed you." He pulls out the chair opposite Michael and sits down, uninvited.

A little affronted by this behaviour, Michael attempts to regain lost ground. He makes an expansive gesture and says: "Go ahead," as if Nico had asked permission to join him.

There's a silence between them. Michael nurses his glass of beer. It's a small barrier, but it's there. He keeps expecting Nico to ask him about the qualifying incident. That's what any other driver would do. That's what any eager rookie would do. But Nico doesn't ask. He just sits there and looks at Michael, his gaze cool and assessing, and Michael wonders what's going through that pretty little head.

Perhaps Nico is too shy to question him. Michael feels magnanimous. Of course Nico is shy. He's not at all like his loudmouth father. Michael realises he's been foolish, allowing his own guilt about today to infect him. He smiles at the young man opposite him.

Nico lifts his chin just slightly. It's enough to make his hair tumble further into his eyes. Nico brushes it back with an impatient gesture. With his hair pushed back, his face looks stronger, more masculine. Michael likes that type of man. He's never considered Nico in that light before; had always thought of him as quite girly, but now he sees strong bones and firm, pouting lips and a dispassionate gaze, and he finds Nico's looks exciting.

"Why did you follow me?" he asks at last.

"I wanted to."

It's not a very informative answer. Michael tries again. "Is this your local?"

"One of them."

Michael can't work out if Nico is really shy or being deliberately obtuse. "I suppose you want to know what happened at the Rascasse today."

Nico shrugs. "Not particularly." He reaches across the table for Michael's drink. Instead of taking a sip, he lifts the glass and takes long draughts of the beer, emptying it halfway. He sets the glass back down in the middle of the table and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, unselfconsciously, like any young man.

Michael is stunned by it. No one dares to be so presumptuous with him, and this is a new feeling. He's caught off guard, and he stumbles over his words of reproach. He remembers the way Nico's throat worked as he drank the beer. He imagines how it would look with his cock thrust deep into Nico's mouth.

He needs to take a gulp of beer to cool that thought. It would be too obvious to drink from the same part of the glass where Nico's lips touched, so he doesn't. When he puts the glass down, it's firmly on his side of the table.

"The thing with motor racing," Michael says in the tone of one about to impart great wisdom, "is that it's all to do with knowing your limits, and the limits of the car and of the track. But your own personal limits are what shapes your style as a driver."

Nico raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. "Really," he murmurs, and it is not a question.

"Yes." Michael feels unbalanced again. He continues, "Today the car did not behave for me. I was caught unawares going into the corner. The Ferrari drifted. I was at my limit to correct it, but no matter what they say, sometimes the machine is greater than the man. I had no choice but to park the car."

He expects Nico to raise a barrage of protests, the way that everyone else has done already. But Nico says nothing. He just looks at him.

Michael is discomfited by this. There is more judgement in silence than in a thousand words. He's learned that from Corinna, who wields her different stages of disappointment as well as any whip, and who knows how to humble him each time. He can't believe that Nico might know how to use disappointment as a weapon of guilt and relief, too.

He needs to find out. He has an opportunity, for Keke spoke out against him in the paddock earlier in the day. Michael asks, "What did your father call me, again?"

Nico's eyes flash with what looks like amusement. "A cheap cheat," he says. "He said you should go home and leave the sport for honest people."

"I suppose by that he meant you."

"I'm brutally honest," Nico says. "But my father was not playing favourites."

"Then he meant Kimi or Fernando…"

Nico shrugs. "That is not your concern. The issue is that you cheated and were caught, and now you must take your punishment like a man, not a martyr."

Michael stares at him, astonished by such harsh words from one so young and seemingly so innocent. "I will."

"Good. Because I admire you, Michael." The way he says it makes it sound more like an insult than praise. "I admire determination and drive. It would be interesting to see what your limits are."

Michael clutches the beer glass tight. He tells himself he's imagining _double entendres_ where there are none, but while Nico is watching him with that strange half-smile curving his lips, he has trouble thinking of anything other than sexual absolution.

He realises that for the duration of their entire conversation, he has been the one asking questions. Nico has given answers or made statements of fact and opinion.

The realisation makes him feel weak. Something flutters low in his belly. He's aroused before he can think better of it.

He lets go of the glass. Confused, uncertain whether he wants this or not, afraid that he's misreading the signals, he stares at the flame on the candle as if it can give him an answer. The wax pool around the wick is wider now, a faint skin appearing on the edges, delicate and trembling as the heat nudges against it.

Nico suddenly picks up the candle and tilts it over Michael's hand. The flame sputters, flickering wildly. The melted wax spills, cooling as it falls, striking Michael's skin in a burst of stinging heat. The wax grips, tightening his flesh, and then the pain is gone, replaced by a tiny, dull ache, like desire.

Michael stares at him.

Nico rights the candle and replaces it in the centre of the table. He still does not smile. His gaze is one of challenge.

Michael looks down. His hand hurts with an insignificant pain that sits so close to pleasure. He touches the middle finger of his other hand to the cooled blobs of wax. If he flexes his fingers, the wax cracks and splits, falling from his skin. Beneath it, his flesh is red and tender. New skin. New beginnings. A second chance.

Nico leans forward. His eyes glint. "You will come home with me."

Dumbly, Michael nods his head.

* * *

They leave the bar and walk into the soft night air. Monaco is alive around them. The little people drive their Fiats, swapping lanes with Ferraris and Porsches. Flags hang from windows to show support for the drivers and teams in tomorrow's race. Balcony doors are open for the sea breeze to circulate; faint snatches of music and television chatter drift out. In the harbour, the yachts are strung with fairy lights.

Michael follows Nico. At first he thinks they're walking side by side, but then he realises that Nico is always one step ahead of him. Michael tells himself it's because Nico is leading the way. He doesn't like that thought: but when he tries to take the lead, Nico veers off and goes in a different direction.

Michael is forced to follow.

As they approach one of the exclusive apartment blocks, Michael remembers a piece of pitlane gossip. He reaches out to touch Nico's arm.

"Wait. Do you still live with your parents?"

Nico flashes him an amused look. "For the moment. Why? Would you be more comfortable if we went to a hotel?"

"Yes, actually. That would be much better." Michael doesn't bother to hide his relief. "Or there's an apartment I have the keys to, it's not far away…"

Nico keeps walking. Michael has to run to keep up with him. When he sees him take out his keys, Michael realises that Nico had no intention of going to a more anonymous place.

"What will – uh, is your father home?" he asks, suddenly nervous.

"Why? Are you scared of him?"

Michael swallows. "No."

Nico laughs softly. The sound stings Michael like a lash.

Inside, the apartment looks much as he'd expected. He's relieved that the rest of the Rosbergs are not at home, and as he allows himself to relax, he looks around with haughty interest.

Keke always had loud taste. There are orange-framed pictures on the wall. The television is bigger than necessary. The sofa is large and mushroom-coloured, made of squeaky, squashy leather. A pink and brown patterned 1970s rug lies in a corner. Michael stares at it.

Nico notices. "It's supposed to be ironic," he says, without a trace of irony. He nods his head towards the doors on the far side of the room. "This way."

Nico's bedroom is as large as the lounge. It has an en-suite bathroom and a balcony. It's tidy, as immaculate as a hotel room. Only the pile of magazines stacked by the bed gives any indication that someone lives here full-time.

Nico takes off his clothes neatly and efficiently. He does it as if Michael isn't there watching him, as if he's getting ready to go to bed alone. Michael feels humiliated by the thought that his gaze isn't exciting enough for Nico to slow down and strip sexily, playfully, the way that young rookie drivers are supposed to do when they're fortunate enough to get Michael Schumacher into their bedrooms.

But Nico doesn't give a damn; and yet he's not arrogant with it. He's detached, in control, keeping the right side of passive-aggressive. Naked, he takes a corner of the cream duvet and strips it right back to the foot of the bed. He climbs onto the mattress and lies back on the pillows, eyes hooded, waiting.

Michael doesn't know what to do, so he does nothing. He doesn't realise he's slipping into the twilight of headspace. It's only when Nico tells him to get undressed that he finally moves, hands quick and nervous as he lifts his t-shirt over his head, unbuttons his trousers, and steps out of his underwear.

"Take off everything," Nico says.

Michael unfastens the necklace he always wears and coils it on top of his clothes. As he straightens up, he realises he's still wearing his wedding ring. He hesitates, and then takes that off, too. It's difficult, but he manages. It hurts to remove it, the same kind of pain as the wax burning his skin, and yet it's different.

His erection had faded while he was undressing. As soon as he drops the wedding ring onto his clothes, he feels a surge of lust. He gets onto the bed without being invited, excited by the possibilities the evening holds. He can't imagine that Nico has the kind of sophisticated toys and equipment that Corinna uses on him, but he's willing to rough it just for tonight. Perhaps Nico has bonds, maybe handcuffs – don't all young men play with handcuffs, even if just the once, just for fun? That would do it; that would be enough.

He keeps low, creeping closer to Nico, admiring his body. Young, sleek, strong… and not at all aroused. Michael can feel his own cock dragging against the sheet. He wonders if Nico will allow him to go down on him. He crouches on the bed, shivering with tension and need, and waits for the command.

Corinna always tells him he's been a bad boy. He knows it, but it's better to hear it. Hearing it from the lips of another person makes it more real. It gives him something to aim towards: the chance of earning forgiveness from outside oneself.

Michael has subbed to men before. Sometimes Corinna arranges it for him, but mostly he takes it upon himself. It's difficult to find someone who's willing to play straight away. Finding a dom might seem easy, but only fools would rush at such an intense relationship, even if it were only a one-off arrangement.

The careful checks of wants measured against need, dislike against fear; the agreement of safe-words and acceptance of thresholds for both pain and humiliation – it all takes time, and for Michael, part of the anticipation of eventual relief is tied up in the meetings beforehand.

Nico isn't like the others. He has asked no questions. He doesn't need to know that Michael has been subbing for as long as he's been in competitive motor-sport. He doesn't care that a man as focused and obsessive as Michael needs an outlet for all that rigid control. He has no interest in the fact that Michael longs to be dominated but always pretends to dominate the other drivers he occasionally beds.

Michael imagines that Nico can see right through him. That cool, detached gaze holds no admiration, no hatred: just a blank. This is where he's different to Corinna, whose eyes always show tenderness even when she's vicious. Michael always has to be blindfolded these days when he goes to Corinna. He can't bear to see her affection. Nico doesn't look at him like that, and that makes Nico perfect.

The risk of failing perfection is always greater than failing an average person.

Michael makes his first mistake when he tries to kiss Nico.

His second mistake is when he lies back and lifts his arms above his head, expecting restraints.

Nico slaps his flank hard enough for it to sting, and orders him to lie on his front. Michael mutters a protest. With every other lover, with every other dom, he's always taken them lying on his back. Even when he's blindfolded, it's the fact that he could see their face if he wanted that makes it important. Michael believes that being on his back makes him less vulnerable. If you can look into someone's eyes, you can control them.

That's why it excites him when Nico shoves him facedown onto the mattress, wedging his head between two pillows so he can't turn. To Nico, he's no longer someone recognisable. He doesn't need to have an identity. He's just a body to use, to fuck, to control. And that is what Michael needs, even though deep inside his pride stirs in protest and demands to be worshipped.

He crushes the protest ruthlessly. It will be the last conscious decision he makes for a while.

It's grey-dark between the pillows, and Michael instinctively closes his eyes. The cotton pillowcases brush his face. He can smell Nico's cologne and the scent of his hair. Sensation and smell buzz in his head, muffling reality, concentrating everything as he sinks deeper into submission.

His awareness is far away now. Sexual pleasure is secondary, a means to an end. Vaguely he remembers the Ferrari fan from earlier in the evening, telling him that the end justifies the means. Of course it does. How could it be any other way?

He stops thinking, and opens himself up to sensation.

He hears the tear of the foil packet. He feels the cold slipperiness of lube spread between his buttocks by fingers that know how and where to arouse. His head is full of the scent of darkness; he can taste his own breath, slightly stale from the beer and from the metallic slime of excitement flooding his mouth.

He feels the head of Nico's cock pushing at his anus. It thrills him shamefully that Nico is so hard now, when he can't see his face, when he's an anonymous body. He likes the idea that Nico is aroused by the arrangement of muscle and flesh, of domination and surrender, rather than by whom he's bedding.

Nico fucks him. He rides him hard, one hand gripping Michael's hip and the other curled tight into a fist against the small of his back. Michael doesn't know if it's in a threat of violence, but he likes the idea that maybe it is. He closes his eyes on the pleasure and pain and allows Nico everything.

His cock rubs against the sheet below him with every thrust. It could be enough for him to come, but Michael wants to hold back. He wants to string out the feeling of being used for a little longer. His breath is harsh and sore in his throat. His face prickles with warmth. He wants to throw aside the pillows and turn his head, but he doesn't. He can't.

Nico doesn't speak, but from the sounds he makes and the way his body tightens, Michael knows that he must be close to orgasm. He sets his face hard against the mattress and aims for his own climax, focusing on the humiliation of a man reaming his arse, imagining his shame caught on film and broadcast to the world, of how much guilt he could take, how deep the degradation, and how it is all wonderfully, perfectly beyond his control…

He feels Nico pull out. He hears him gasping. The condom, a shrivelled rubber ribbon, sticks to his thigh. Then he feels Nico lean over him, and feels the brush of his knuckles against his buttocks. He realises that Nico is jerking off on top of him.

He can imagine it, that blond hair sweat-streaked and hanging in his face, those full lips parted as he pants for breath, the tension in the arm supporting his weight, the long thrust of muscles in his thighs. He can see the blur of Nico's hand wrapped around his cock, a staccato, desperate movement. He imagines Nico's balls tucked high and tight, his cock straining, the head lewd, smeared with pre-cum.

Michael yelps into the mattress. He takes a mouthful of the pillowcase and bites down on it, straining for his own release. He gasps, shocked by joyful humiliation, when he feels the splash of Nico's semen across his back. It's hot and thick, seeming to burn his skin as it lands. It comes again and again, the vigour of the young, until it feels as though his back is covered in snails' trails of warm, wet seed.

Michael revels in his own disgust. His own orgasm is small and tight in comparison, his semen jetting into the sheet until he lies soiled on either side.

There is a perfect moment of clarity, and then Nico moves, not to lie beside him, but to lean against the pillows.

Michael hides against the mattress, wallowing in the forgiveness of his climax.

A few minutes later, Nico gets up and goes to the bathroom, disposing of the condom and flushing the toilet. He looks out at the balcony through the blinds, unconcerned by his nudity.

"You can go now," he says.

Michael sits up on his knees, moving carefully. He can feel the runnels of semen cold-trickling down his back. It tickles, in a sordid kind of way. He wants to ask permission to take a quick shower, but he knows Nico won't agree. That's just the way it is.

He winces as he gets off the bed. Semen runs down his body. He tries not to let any drip onto the bed or the floor. Michael dresses in haste, feeling his clothes absorb Nico's seed, a sin hidden if not forgotten.

He puts on his shoes and stands there, hands clasped in front of him. Nico is still lounging by the window, his body perfect and beautiful.

Michael says, "Thank you," because it's only right that he does.

Nico nods without looking at him.

There's a pause, and then Michael asks, "What did you get out of it?"

Nico lifts a hand and brushes back his hair. His expression is still blank, but there's warmth in his eyes. "Me? Nothing." His voice is low, far more intimate than before. He says, "I did it for you. To give you a second chance."

"Then…" Michael is both stunned and confused.

At last, Nico smiles. "Punishment," he says. "And forgiveness. Isn't that what you always want? The FIA can't give it to you, but I can."

Michael stares at him. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes. But only to those who can understand what they see." Nico gestures him away with a flick of his fingers. "You may go."

Michael hesitates. "Can I… can I see you again?"

Nico's expression shutters, his eyes blanking. "Don't assume anything from this," he says. "This was a second chance, not an open invitation."

Chastened, Michael bows his head and nods.

He only looks up when the bathroom door clicks shut. He takes his leave in silence, creeping from the apartment like a whore paid in kind.

Out on the street, he can see the harbour and the yachts strung with the twinkling fairy lights. They look tawdry. He's grateful for the darkness. It forgives much more than the light.


End file.
